


Silver, Jet, and Diamonds

by Haldane



Series: The Pretence Series [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Pretence, requires knowledge of that story's events.  Watson had pictured Holmes as a cheetah, but when he takes a step towards making his fantasy image real, the consequences are more than he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver, Jet, and Diamonds

It is a miserable November night when I plod wearily around the last corner into Baker Street. Even without rain the wind is raw and cold, yet my lodgings hold less appeal than usual. Holmes left over six weeks ago for the Continent, and Mrs. Hudson has gone on a rare break to be with her daughter, ill in Bath. Since she only left today, there will no doubt be supper set under a cloth, but still the thoughts of a solo night and tea of my own brewing do little to hasten my steps. 

The only advantage of Holmes' absence has been the chance to execute a private commission for myself, a matter so delicate I would never attempt it with his omniscient eye on my daily activities. But a flat morocco box, some eight inches square, sits well concealed in my room. Now it only remains to be seen if it ever rests elsewhere.

My eyes lift by habit to the window of our sitting room, and with delight I see that the lights are on. I try to guard against disappointment by warning myself it could be merely an idle visitor, but I hope all the same, and indeed it is Holmes. He sits in his usual place, and greets me as casually as if he has been gone an hour, not nearly two months.

We speak of nothing in particular over supper, and I fetch myself a brandy from the decanter before settling in front of the fire. I am just congratulating myself on a better evening than I was expecting when Holmes finishes filling his pipe and turns to me.

"What is it that happened while I was away, that you are so afraid of telling me?"

Damn the man! It seems I cannot keep secrets from him, even when he is not around to observe me. "Very well, Holmes. How have I given myself away this time?"

"You sit there with a brandy instead of your usual port, so your nerves require external support. During supper, all attempts I made to inquire as to your activities while I was gone you evaded, and you constantly turned the conversation to mine. Also, I never once heard your feet shift on the floor, so your legs must have been very tense. So far it points only to some internal concern on your part. But in addition, your hands and face showed no such stress, therefore the tension you were obviously feeling you were equally obviously trying to conceal from me. Now, if you wish I shall let the matter rest, but you must know there is only one cure for being afraid of a revelation, and that is to get it over with."

He's right, as so often before. Having gone as far as I have with creating reality out of my fantasy, the awareness of the box in my room will stand between us like a wall. I am caught between straining our relationship with concealment, and testing it to breaking point with confession. I never thought that it would become an issue so soon! And not for a moment do I believe that an evasion here will result in the matter resting. Holmes views an unsolved puzzle much as a bull views a flapping red rag.

"Very well. Wait here for a moment, Holmes, I must fetch something from my room." And shortly I am back with the morocco box, and I know, even if he does not yet, that everything teeters on a needle's point.

I open it away from his gaze, just to look again at the contents. Inside is a piece of jewellery superficially resembling a necklace, until one looks closer. Its basic structure is like that of a very small belt, leather with a buckle and series of holes. However as a belt it would be deficient, since it is only a hand span across, and perhaps an inch in depth. 

The outer surface has been completely covered with thin silver strips, placed so as not to impair the flexibility of the leather underneath. Two rows of faceted jet studs run for the full length, and within each square made by four studs is a tiny diamond, tiny but as flawless as I can afford. The inner surface is lined with a fine grade of suede, tanned to a pale grey colour. I shut the box again with a mental sigh. It is so lovely I am almost sorry to give it up.

"I had this made while you were away, by a jeweller who had toured extensively in India, and had some knowledge of what I wanted. It..." and I have to pause and clear my throat, "It is for you."

He opens the box, and my voice rattles on with nervousness. "It's a cheetah collar. The rajahs hunt with them, in India. You should see those animals, Holmes, all long limbs, grace and power, with haughty eyes, and when their handlers release them, you cannot believe the speed they show, so fast and so lethal... The one I saw had a collar in topaz and gold, to match its eyes, but your eyes are -"

And my voice chokes off in mid-sentence, as his head whips around and he stares at me in total shock and disbelief. I swear, my heart stutters in my chest as I realise the ghastly miscommunication. The link in my mind between his form, the collar, and our intimate activities is so strong that I never considered the same link would not exist for him. He had not realised what I meant, when I said it was for him.

He realised now.

If I could have willed myself dead where I stood, I would have. 

After a moment that ages me a thousand years, he breaks eye contact and returns his gaze to the open box in his hands, surveying the silver and grey tones. He finishes my sentence. "My eyes are grey."

He snaps the box closed, and I fear he will toss it into the fire. Instead he places it upon the mantelpiece, and crosses to the bookcase. Pulling down the "CHA" to "CON" volume of the encyclopaedia, he reads for several minutes. His chain of actions is for once crystal clear to me, but the thought is of little comfort. When he finishes the article, he returns to the hearth and opens the box again for further study of its contents.

"One question." His tone is neutral, civil. 

"What is it, Holmes?" Now, I think, I will find out how deep is the abyss before my feet.

"I must know, Watson. What the devil did you tell him?"

Of all the things he could have asked, I was not expecting that. On later reflection, I should have done, guessed that he would sidestep the emotional issue and inquire only after facts. Still, it was hardly the rejection I had feared, and I allowed myself the faintest flicker of hope.

"I explained that, in trying to impress a young lady of recent acquaintance, I had overstated the case and said I owned one of these instead of merely having seen one. And having described it in detail to her, I needed one made exactly as I described or risk losing ground in my pursuit."

"Well, well! Most ingenious, I am impressed. Among other things." He continues to examine the collar, and for all the years I have known him, his face is absolutely unreadable. When he shuts the case and turns toward me, I can hardly breathe for dread. 

"I shall just take it to my room, and find an ... appropriate ... place to put it. It might take me a little while." His eyes meet mine and I realise with elation that my gamble has succeeded. 

"If you're not back in ten minutes, shall I lead out a search party?"

"It would have to be a very small search party. Indeed, I do not think there is anyone else at all in the house tonight." As if I did not know that for myself already. 

It is a good thing that I intend to wait before following him, as I do not think that my legs have the strength to take me anywhere. As soon as he is gone I toss back the rest of the brandy and exhale gustily, appalled now at my daring. 

 

It has been a long time since I have felt such trepidation at his door. But it would only be ridiculous to back out now, so I open it, step through, and close it behind me. 

He kneels in what I think of as his classic position, back straight, hands behind his head. In his plain nudity he has been beautiful. In the silver collar he is magnificent. The firelight calls glints from the jet studs and tiny diamonds I ordered so carefully, and when he turns his head and looks at me there are matching glints in his eyes. 

I still do not know how he managed it. In a single movement he springs from the floor and covers the distance to the door, catching me completely off my guard. His shoulder hits me square in the sternum and drives the air from my lungs, and I gasp and go rigid, unable to move or even speak.

I wonder fuzzily if I have misread him and he is indeed angry with me, but his hands are flying at my waist, undoing my belt, and when he seizes the band of my trousers and simply tears the fly open, sending buttons spinning across the floor, I realize it is not anger he feels. 

I am still trying to regain my breath, and he is still moving faster than I can believe. My trousers and underclothes are jerked down to my knees, then me knocks me to the carpet and rolls me onto my back. There is a clasp knife in his hand – where the hell did that come from? – and he slashes the laces in my shoes so he can tear them from my feet, the clothes soon following.

I get one clear look at him as he leans in between my knees. His erection is larger than I have ever seen it, and so slick and glistening that it is obvious exactly what he was doing while waiting for my arrival. One glance is all I get as his hands seize my hips and he presses his way into me, slow but utterly implacable.

I have never felt anything like it. My back arches and I hear a strangled scream that only afterwards I know was mine. If he was to continue my analogy of a cheetah and tear my throat out with his teeth I do not think I could - or would - lift a finger to prevent it. His teeth are bared in fact, his eyes wild, and the collar throws a thousand points of light, and no one will ever see this glorious sight but me. Indeed it is all I can see, I focus only on him, my hips pushing forward of their own accord to urge him deeper, I must have all of him.

He's so deep that on each stroke his sac brushes against my skin and the feel of it drives me insane. The skin there is stretched so tight and is so sensitive that I swear I can feel each hair. I am vaguely aware that it will hurt like the devil tomorrow, but now all I want is more. He obliges, thrusting again and again. His breath rasps so loud and fast that I tense for his climax, but he clenches his teeth and holds back. I reach for myself, but he knocks my hand away and takes it in his own. Instead of wrapping his fingers completely around me, he cups his hand underneath and presses it up against himself. His hand holds still, supporting only, but the warm skin and coarse hair on his lower body rubs up and down against my member as he moves, uniquely stimulating, and I come in a shamefully short time. He laughs out loud, a strange mix of joy and triumph, and releases himself to follow me over the edge. 

The next several minutes are unclear to me. Holmes lies draped over the length of my body, his forehead resting on the floor, our skin sweaty wherever we press against each other. I can feel the hammer of my heart and of his, both racing wildly.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"If you are going to make a habit of this, you had better start drafting my obituary. I am not certain how many such encounters I can survive."

"I claim provocation. If you are going to make a habit of giving me such significant objects, you should be prepared to live with the consequences."

"I rather think I would die of them!"

For some this reason this strikes us both as ridiculously funny and we laugh uncontrollably, lying there on the floor. When we sober somewhat we start assessing the mess we have made and there is no recourse but to start laughing again. There are no cloths or rags to hand, my vest is unspeakably stained, and scattered somewhere in the dark corners of the room are five of my trouser buttons. We must find all of them lest Mrs. Hudson does. One shoe lies decorously enough by the door, decorous if one overlooks the slashed laces, however the other is in the coalscuttle. 

We start with washers and cold water, collect my discarded clothes, and begin hunting for the buttons. I can only imagine the picture we would present to an uninvolved observer: two men, one wearing only a jewelled collar on his neck, the other dressed conservatively above the waist but with only socks below, crawling on hands and knees at random around the room. I find I am sneaking peeks at Holmes in his search. I do not catch him looking back at me. Either he is concentrating on the task at hand, or he is simply better than I at not being caught. 

I have found two, and he two, when I hear a crow of triumph, for all the world like a schoolboy finding a shilling. 

"Ha! Three to two! I claim a forfeit, Watson!" 

"A forfeit? What the devil do you mean?"

"Well, I found more buttons than you, I must win something." How can the man sound so damned reasonable? 

He steps in close enough to wrap me in both of his arms, so strong for all their slenderness, and lowers his head to use his tongue on the side of my neck. Even with my passion so recently spent, I have to close my eyes and shudder at such a touch. He whispers, lips brushing my ear.

"A forfeit, Watson. You. Stay in my bed tonight." 

"Mrs. Hudson....". Why is my voice so weak?

"Is gone for the next two days. And the boy was only too pleased to be tipped half a crown to play truant tomorrow. If any visitors come to our door, no one will answer. As far as the world is concerned, we will not be here. Stay. Please."

I think if not for that final word, I would still be there, poised so exactly between the voice of convention, warning me of possible consequences, and the voice of desire, warning me that if I turned away now I would regret it forever. But all I can do is nod silently against his shoulder. He crushes me in his embrace, hands running down my back until they clear my clothes and reach bare skin, and he seeks my lips with his own. Only now I realise that the carnal appetite in him, so rarely woken, is only roused and not sated. But having made my decision, I determine to quash all reservations and take from the night whatever it brings.

 

My hands tremble slightly as I start on my vest buttons, and he shakes his head in exasperation at my slowness and takes over, fingers swift and deft as always. He disappears briefly with the bundle of my clothes and returns with my nightshirt and dressing gown over his arm, but instead of passing them to me, he tosses them to the foot of the bed.

"I rumpled your bed a little as well, in case of some unforeseen circumstance. You can always don those and pretend you were in here by chance, if the house should catch fire or a foreign army invades." 

"If a foreign army invades, I shall send you out to seduce them and gain enough time to evacuate the city." I mutter. I do not actually intend for him to hear it, but he does. His smile lights his face in a manner that most who know him would consider impossible. 

"Watson, I do believe you flatter me. In fact, having consulted the encyclopaedia earlier, I am certain of it." He removes the collar as he speaks, placing it carefully back into its box. The box itself goes on the top shelf of the wardrobe. "Do not be concerned, tomorrow I shall find a more secure location for it."

"By 'tomorrow' I suppose you really mean, when I am not watching."

"But of course! I have very few treasures in this life, I must take care to guard them."

The look in his eyes as he delivers this last leaves little doubt about his meaning. His hands rest on my shoulders, and he shakes his head and clucks in mock concern. "Watson, you are as tense as a watchspring. You will have to let me fix that, indeed, I insist upon it. Lie there, on the bed. No, face down. You need not watch me, I swear, I will not be springing across the room and assaulting you again tonight." 

"That is a slightly qualified assurance, Holmes." 

"Indeed. And the only one you are going to get." He sits upright, straddling the back of my thighs, and his sinewy fingers go to work on my neck and shoulders. I had not realised myself how much tension there was, but he seems to find every twist and knot, moving gradually down my back and relaxing me in truth. I have no idea how he acquired this skill, but he is an excellent masseur. Or maybe it is the case that any touch from his hands calls out whatever effect he wishes.

He is well down into my lower back when he speaks. "With your lesser powers of deduction, Watson, I suppose you have missed the fact that you are not the only one here who harbours fantasies?"

It takes me a moment to untangle what he means. "You have only to ask, Holmes."

"Ah. It is that easy, is it?" His voice has gone a little cool. "As easy as it was for you to present me with that box earlier this evening?"

I remember my emotions at the time and remain silent.

"No, I am not really being fair. Truly, Watson, that took courage on your part. Perhaps you are braver than I. It is always harder to be the one who speaks first."

"What is it that you wish?"

"It is so trivial, compared to your extraordinary flight of fancy, that I suspect you will laugh."

"I have not heard it, so I cannot promise I will not laugh. But I can promise that if it is in my power, I will do it."

He lifts his weight up for a moment and flips me over deftly. I feel completely boneless, and despite our closeness not in the least aroused. But then, that is not the effect he has been working towards.

"Are you aware," his voice deceptively casual, "that this is the first time you have ever been naked in my bed? Always before, when we are done you have left. No!" and he lifts a hand to prevent my explanation. "I know as well as you why you have to leave. But I have also wondered if you preferred it that way. And if you have grown accustomed to your role, and have no wish to change it."

"I do that for you, Holmes."

"I know. And I appreciate it, truly. But that does not mean that you want a change."

At last I think I see what he is trying to say. These are never easy things to put into words; sometimes the very attempt ruins the value, like asking specifically for an item compared to receiving exactly what you want as a spontaneous gift. I close my eyes and let my head loll back, spreading my arms and legs as wide as I can. I order every muscle I have control over to relax, and do my very best to broadcast the invitation for him to do with me whatever he will.

He exhales slowly, a sound half the word "yes" and half a sigh. "One last thing, Watson. Would you let me bind you, as you are now?" I flinch at his request, and I know he feels it. The only purpose I see for bonds is to prevent escape, and I wonder how far he wishes to trade roles. I recall some of the beatings I have given him when the demon is upon him, and have no wish to experience even one of them. He hurries on. "I will take no offence if you do not. I swear, I intend only to use you gently."

Now I have some understanding of his feelings in the sitting room before: it is hard being on either end of such a transaction. "You can, if that is what you wish. I flinched from surprise, nothing more." I cast about for words to carry us over the moment. "You will note that I did not laugh."

It seems as if I have found the right thing to say. Holmes smiles, and rises from the bed to fetch a cloth bag. It contains four strips of fabric, each such as might be used as the belt for a dressing gown. I do my best to remain still - for although I trust Holmes with my very life, instinct cries out against allowing such a thing - as he knots each one around a wrist or ankle, and then to the bedposts.

At first they are irrelevant. He seems determined to learn every inch of me, running his hands the full length of my limbs, caressing places I would have thought of no interest, his touch more soothing than stimulating. He even takes time to massage the balls of my feet. The restraints make no difference, for I have no wish to move. But ever so subtly he changes moods. His hands still draw warm circles on my skin, but ever so gradually the circles bend, inwards towards my centre and then shying away.

He strokes down my thighs, down as far as my knees, then lets his hands slip inwards and drags the backs of his fingernails up the sensitive inside surfaces. Short of my groin the teasing touch moves up and outwards, over the bones of my hips and onto my waist. Somehow he manages to avoid even the slightest brush on my private parts. Down again, up again, even closer this time but still teasing, and as he continues I moan and try instinctively to shift into his hands. 

Now I learn the reason for the restraints. I can neither press into his strokes, nor close my legs to trap his hands. I grow harder even as I grow more frustrated, and still he has not touched me in any of the places one would expect. Holmes leans forwards and gently blows - blows! - through my hairs, ruffling them without applying the slightest pressure where I yearn for it. He swore to use me gently, and I never saw the trap in those words. 

"Holmes, some day I will get even with you for this."

"Oh, that refrain again! I've heard it so many times, and I am still here. Although you are probably a greater danger to me than any of those others, with your... shall we say... access to my person."

"You just wait and see what I do with my access to your person, the next time you ask me to attend you in here."

"Ahhhh. I will look forward to it." And he leans down and breathes on me again. It is a torment to know his lips are only an inch from my skin, and although I twist to close the gap, he retreats to keep the distance constant until I hit the limits of my bonds. Gently, damn him, still gently, he presses me back flat onto the bed. "Relax, Watson, I will not leave you wanting." 

 

I had thought he was tormenting me before, with his hands. I had not allowed for what he could do to me with his mouth. He kisses me everywhere the skin runs thin, wrists, elbows, ankles, soft wet kisses with lips and swipes of tongue. Then he comes to my nipples, pulling them into his warm mouth, licking one while fondling the other. I know he progresses at his own pace, always, but I absolutely cannot stand it any longer, and I am reduced to begging. 

"Holmes, please!"

And at last he takes my aching member in his hand, no more teasing now, his grip warm and confident. His tongue licks at the base exposed below his hand, then swirls around my sac before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on one side and then the other. My hips lift and push of their own accord, trying to get as much of myself in contact with him as possible. Finally he lowers his mouth over my hard shaft, gradually unwrapping his fingers as he takes me deeper and deeper. After so long spent in reaching this point, I could release now, but then it would be over, and I do not want him to stop yet. 

He must be able to tell how close I am. He rises up, on his knees between my open legs, and stretches towards the ceiling. His lean elegance makes me burn to reach for him, but he has done his job too well. Carefully he shifts forwards, places his legs outside of mine, and settles over me like some distorted mirror image, hip to hip and member against member. He gathers both of us together in one hand and strokes. 

I cannot help the gasp that escapes me. It is such a combination of sensations, his skin soft but with hardness underneath, his fingers sure and skilled. I have a bizarre image of his violin waiting sentient in its case, longing for the touch of those artist's hands. Bonds or no bonds, I press myself into him. His hand moves faster, and his fingers squeeze. 

"Watson. Stop holding back, and climax for me." It seems hardly to be his voice, so strongly coloured as it is by lust. "I want to watch your face." 

I have never denied him anything before, and I will not deny him now. My eyes are closed, my breath rasps, all my awareness is in his hand. I can no longer tell where I stop and he starts, velvet skin rubbing against skin. But even now he has - as always - one more card in reserve. His idle left hand reaches behind him, and he grasps my sac, lifting it up as far as it can go, then curling his fingers so it slides back into place only by dragging over his nails. 

That does it. I groan something incoherent as the pleasure becomes too much to bear and I climax shatteringly. His hands are still working on me, and my hips thrust involuntarily over and over, until there is nothing left and I lie gasping on the bed, sweating and exhausted. 

Holmes is watching me intently as I gradually return to normal. When he seems satisfied that I am not about to die of heart failure there underneath him, he nods sharply and turns his attention back to himself. He opens his right hand and smears it across my stomach, slicking it heavily with the seed that I spilt there. When he starts to stroke himself again the sight is incredibly erotic - his head tilted back as his breathing quickens, while thick white drops ooze from between his fingers. 

He kneels up a little higher now, taking the burden of his weight from me, and I see the chance to play a trick back on him. I cannot reach for him as I wish, but I can twist my hips, one down and the other up between his legs to put pressure on him there. He flinches when my hipbone strikes those delicate nerves, but then he lowers himself to meet me and moves back and forth in time with his strokes. 

I wonder if I looked the same as he does when he climaxes, eyes closed, lips parted, his whole body shuddering. I can see the physical signs in his body just before he comes, as his thighs clench and sweat suddenly beads his skin. He comes silently, despite the obvious intensity. When is it over he collapses completely, sliding down to rest half on me and half on the bed, one arm and one leg draped over my body. I wait for him to calm, as he had waited for me.

"Holmes?"

"No, Watson, I have not forgotten."

"I did not think you had. But if you loosen my arms, I can hold you."

He weighs his options for a moment, the effort of movement against the attraction of my embrace, and with his longer limbs manages to release my wrists without having to lift himself from me. We lie perfectly still, entwined, for as long as we can, but eventually have to admit that the fire is dying, the room is growing cold, and the need for sleep cannot be put off forever. 

We do the absolute minimum that we must before returning to the bed, this time side by side with the coverlets pulled up. We lie a little apart, since neither of us is used to sharing, touching just a little at elbow and ankle. As my mind stills towards sleep, a random comment from earlier suddenly calls for my attention.

"Holmes. You said you paid off the boy not to answer the door tomorrow... does that mean you knew this was going to happen?"

My friend replies with his usual acerbity when directly questioned about what is so obvious to him. "No, Watson, I did not know anything. I did not know about the box in your room, nor what you would ask, nor I, nor that we would find ourselves together as we do now. I did not know," stressing the verb, "anything." 

He is silent so long after, I believe he has gone to sleep. Then he speaks again. "But I hoped."


End file.
